


Death, Despair and Destiny

by Arzani



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post Season 1, briefly, caring Vesemir, death mention, the Trials (The Witcher), the plot thiccens, you will probably cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26970430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arzani/pseuds/Arzani
Summary: The life of a witcher is filled with death. It surrounds them all the time, everytime. Death knows, because he is there, for every step, for every kill, for every lost soul. He opens doors and accompanies souls to their next journey.Geralt should have died in his second round of the Trial of Grasses. But he didn't, because a bargain was made. Death knows, because he has been there.----Geralt's life as he lives it, told through the eyes of Death, who is especially fond of the white haired witcher.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Death (Freeform), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 101





	1. the Trials

He knew the path up the Blue Mountains, towards the fortress that was Kaer Morhen, as intimately as only a full grown witcher did. It wasn’t a nice path. It was tricky, narrow and oh so deadly. Many a child had found their end here, before or after they had become a witcher. So many children had died on this path that it was called “the Killer”. What a fitting name. What an ugly name. He had been there for every single child.

It rained. Spring was on its way to become summer, but this far up the mountain it didn’t show yet. Coldness was a constant companion deep between the walls of the home to the wolf school. A pity, that witchers didn’t feel it as much anymore after their mutations. Maybe if they did, they would provide their trainees some thicker cloaks. But they didn’t. But why would they, when all that followed were stone benches, potions that changed a human body, screams and torture and death.

He sighed, looked up towards the entry, two wooden doors closed to hold off any intruder. It couldn’t hold him back and when he stepped through the entrance, he pushed the cloak on his head back. A soft dark face appeared, two brown eyes and white hair. He knew how he looked, even though few people ever saw him. Well, at least as long as they were alive.

The halls were familiar, as he walked towards the rooms that were filled with screams. He could smell sweat and fear and pain. It was a familiar scent, but not one he ever got used to. There was nothing in it to get used to. He didn’t want to. Ever.

He passed witchers and mages alike. They looked tired, most of them, hard lines around cold eyes and mouths drawn to thin lines and pity burrowed so deep it couldn’t be found. They heard the screams, too, but they had stopped caring. Or at least, they pretended to. Most of them at least. There were witchers better equipped to hide their emotions and some which tried and failed. Those usually weren’t trainers. His eyes swept over a familiar figure that retreated with clenched fists and a swift step. Oh, Vesemir should never have offered to be a trainer. He knew, but it wasn’t like he could do anything about it.

His hands touched the door that led through to the room, where they performed the Trial of Grasses and with a swift step he made it through. Ten boys were strapped to stone tables, eyes white, open without seeing anything but blinding pain, or closed in horror. Hands balled into fists or grappling for something to hold onto as shocks of pain cursed through their veins, killing, killing and changing their bodies. They screamed. All of them screamed their voices hoarse and he knew some of them would never be able to sing again, speak with a clear voice again. If they ever got the chance to speak again, at all.

It took another twenty minutes when the first boy stopped screaming. He stepped towards the body, brushed his sandy hair aside and touched the forehead. It was sweaty, but became colder by the second.

“It’s over now,” he whispered, voice gentle, while inside him he hurt. This hurt. Every time. Every year anew. Next to him someone tugged at the sleeve of his coat. He turned and the boy with the sandy hair looked at him out of green eyes. He was scared, but free of pain and that was enough. Free of his body, that still lay on the stone table.

“Is it… what happened?” the boy whispered and he opened his arms to pull the small body into an embrace.

“You died,” he said softly, truthfully. He couldn’t lie. “Your body didn’t survive the mutagens. But that’s fine. Because I will guide you home.”

“Where is home?” the boy asked and he swallowed. These kids never had a home other than this one. How could he answer the question accurately? He had never crossed the door. Wasn’t meant to.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Another boy stopped screaming and in a short moment after, another. They screamed one moment, and stopped the next. Then they stood next to him. Brown hair, blue eyes and chestnut hair and brown eyes. He wasn’t meant to go, yet. Could feel it in his bones.

“Don’t be afraid,” he reassured the other two boys. They nodded. He smiled and kneeled down. “What’re your names?” he asked all three of them.

“Anthony,” the boy with the brown hair and brown eyes said.

“Dee,” the boy with the sandy hair said. Before the third could speak, another of the boys stopped screaming. He sighed, turned and looked into the bright eyes of a boy with a tanned skin tone and sparkly blue eyes.

“Come here,” he smiled and opened his arms. “Your brothers just told me their names. What’s yours?”

“Leight,” the boy said and walked into his arms, letting the closeness sooth him. The boy with the brown hair and blue eyes clung to his coat and whispered, “I’m Mark”

He tried to embrace all of them, as best as he could. Somehow he managed, but then another boy stopped screaming and another. They took their last painful breath, exhaled through a scream and then stood by his side. Another boy, a bit bigger and probably older than the rest, with strawberry-blonde hair and green eyes. He sighed, looked baffled, then content and said “I’m Derek.” The last boy was small, probably the youngest and looked as afraid as a small child could be. All the other boys made space for him so he could hold the youngest in his arms. The boy sniffled a little, snot running down his nose. Derek stroked through his black hair.

“It’s alright, Sim, we’re allowed to cry now.”

“You are,” he said softly and pressed Sim a little closer. Looking up from the boy, he faced the rest. It was time to lead them to another, better place than this. He made a gesture with his hand, and felt the pull that always appeared when the door opened. He smiled and looked at the boys, who all looked at him.

“I will remember you,” he promised, because he knew no one else would. He looked closely at every single boy who passed by him and walked through the door. Dee and Anthony, Leigh and Mark, Derek and Sim. Before Sim left, he looked up with his big, round eyes and watched his face.

“Will you be alright?” was asked and he sighed, smiled. Tousled Sim’s hair.

“Of course, smart boy,” he said softly. “I always am.”

Sim nodded, turned and didn’t question his lie. Then the door fell closed and Death looked at the remaining four boys, who finally came to a rest on top of the stone tables. He stepped towards each of them and brushed over their hair. Gascaden, Gweld, Eskel and Geralt. He sighed.

“I’m sorry you weren’t fortunate enough to come with me,” he whispered and hated himself that it was true. He didn’t wish anyone death even if he was Death itself. He wanted people, all people, humans, non-humans, to live. But a witcher’s life was hard and lonely, and a long time ago he had realized it was better for the boys to die during the trials than walk a path of misery. Or so he believed.

He would go and return next year, to go through the process again and remember the lost children that never became Witchers.

With a last look at the boys, now asleep from exhaustion and pain, he turned to go… only when he tried he couldn’t. Something held him here, another death to come. He tried. The boys had survived, his job was done. Panic encompassed him. No…

He tried again, mobilizing his energy to  _ go _ . He failed. NO!

The wooden door opened and the school mages filtered in. Their eyes were cold and turned a little colder, when they took in the remaining boys. Checked each of their pulses, scanned them with magic. Eskel and Gweld and Gascaden. And Geralt. Who they scanned again. And again.

“Oh,” one of the mages said. It sounded like glee. “He... he is just what we needed. He could go through an extra round and survive.”

Something clattered on the floor, outside in the hallway, just in front of the door. It was a dagger. A dagger Vesemir had been holding. His cat-like eyes were big and scared and furious.

“No,” he bellowed, anger barely suppressed. Everyone could see it, feel it. “No. He survived the trials, he is a witcher now. What more do you want?”

The mage who had spoken tried to look as friendly and placating as he could. “Vesemir, calm down. He took the mutagens like no other boy did. We could make him even stronger, faster, better. So he’s less likely to die out on the path.”

The words were supposed to be soothing but Vesemir wasn’t soothed. He seethed instead. “He has a  _ name _ . Geralt. And he will die, because you couldn’t get enough and then he won’t have a chance to survive. Because he’s dead!”

“Well, good that it isn’t your decision, Vesemir,” another one of the mages said, tone cold now. He had never cared to learn the mages’ names. He knew them by looks and voices and even that was too much, in his humble opinion. He didn’t want to learn the names of mages who send children into so much pain. He was Death, but not cruel.

“I will -” But Vesemir was interrupted. Behind him another witcher appeared. Tall, black hair, strong eyes. Strong, but not cruel or cold, like the mages’ eyes.

“A word, Vesemir,” he said, the witcher. Death knew his name, at least. Rennes.

Vesemir complied, but barely so. It was visible in the line of his neck, tension dripping from every muscle. He walked, but not before he cast a look of so much fondness towards the boys - towards Geralt - it broke his heart. With a sigh, Death followed them out but then made his way up to the battlements. His gaze wandered over the sinking sun to the mountains, taking in the marvellous view but not seeing anything. He knew Vesemir was right. If they took Geralt for another round of mutations, he would die. And they would. Because he couldn’t go.

* * *

Two weeks went by until something happened. Until something pulled at him. Two weeks spent by walking through the training grounds, overhearing the mages talk about a second round of mutations and hearing Vesemir and Rennes argue. They argued, first in hushed voices, but it soon became more heated and angry. The freshly mutated witchers regained some of their strength and had to start training the moment they could stand by themselves again. It was harsh, it was painful, it was torture to watch and Death wished he could just leave. But something held him at Kaer Morhen.

Then, one day, things shifted.

He wandered the halls of the keep, passing Rennes’ office when he heard Vesemir shout. Angry and pained and so full of despair it hurt. The calm “No” of Rennes drove him away. He had known this outcome the moment he hadn’t been able to leave and he didn’t want to be part of this. He fled from the scene, up some stairs and was back to the battlements, overlooking Morhen Valley. Closing his eyes he let the crisp mountain air calm him. Then suddenly a hand touched his shoulder and he turned around, startled.

A young, handsome man looked at him. Tall, strong shoulders, narrow waist. Dark locks framed an even face, ice-blue eyes looking as soft as real ice never could. A breath escaped him, ragged and stuttering, then he caught himself in his surprise. “Lucifer,” he whispered and the man smiled a sad smile. Another moment passed and then the two hugged each other with fervor.

“I missed you, my friend,” Lucifer murmured into his neck and he couldn’t help himself from exhaling harshly. The warmth of the other seeped into his body and it helped. It really did.

“Why are you here?” Death asked, when Lucifer released him. His blue eyes wandered towards the keep, to a window that Death realised was Rennes’ office. Voices carried out of the room, muffled but obviously shouting.

“Despair called me, as always,” Lucifer answered, then grimaced. “That path up is horrible, how do you manage each year?” He only could muster a snort and his hands balled to fists.

“I don’t.”

Lucifer placed a hand on his shoulder again and squeezed. They were silent for a long time, only the sounds of training wafted up, as well as the shouting from Rennes’ office. Then some more voices sounded from the room. Something seemed to shatter… then it was truly silent. Dread filled him.

“I never made a bargain with a witcher before,” Lucifer murmured, more to himself. He looked young, but the weariness of long years filled with despair shimmered in his eyes. Lucifer was old. Almost as old as he himself was. “They usually don’t despair enough.”

Death looked away from the window of Rennes’ office back towards the valley. The sun shimmered on the snowy mountain tops, back down a lake glimmered in a dark shade of blue, somewhere in between snow turned to grass. White to green to blue, to black. He closed his eyes.

“Vesemir is different,” he said to Lucifer who had started to walk towards the stairs, pulled by the strings of despair that led him to do his job.

“I can feel it,” was his answer. Death followed in his wake, but when Lucifer turned towards a staircase leading up, Death was pulled back down to the Room of Grasses. Well, that was what he called it. He gazed at Lucifer’s face another last time. “I don’t know if I want you to make a bargain with Vesemir,” he whispered, words filled with honesty. Lucifer’s eyes darkened.

“It’s not my decision.”

Death knew it was true. It didn’t mean he had to like it.

* * *

When he found the Room of Grasses, Geralt was already bound to the stone table. His eyes were like molten gold and his gaze defiant. When a mage poured a potion into his throat, forcing his mouth open to do so, he didn’t make a sound. Just looked at the man without any emotion showing. But when the mage left, a tear rolled down Geralt’s eye.

“I’m sorry, Eskel,” he murmured to no one and nothing, but Death heard him. His heart constricted painfully. Then the screaming started and he stood and watched and waited. He hated every single second of it.

* * *

Lucifer, like him, was sent to this world to fulfill a job to keep order. Life itself had created them all. He knew he had a purpose, to guide the souls through the door, help them find the other side. Only sometimes he failed, when souls were strong and angered and tied to the Continent. They became wraiths and as much as he hated what became of witchers, how they had to live their lives, he was grateful that they freed those wraiths and helped him lead the poor souls through the door. He was in depth to witchers, which made it even harder to see how they had to live. To wander a path that was lonely and gruesome and hard. They grew up in pain and lived in pain and died in pain and Death knew not one single witcher deserved it. But most people - humans - didn’t see that. They made it unfairly harder for the witchers on the path.

His job was to help souls through the door and it wasn’t always an easy job, but Death knew that Lucifer’s job was even harder. While Death was pulled by a life fading, Lucifer was pulled by despair. He was supposed to pull people out of the dark hole they fell in in the face of true pain, and could make bargains to help his cause along. In his bargains he even could defeat death. But the choice was never his and every bargain demanded a prize. A prize Lucifer had no say over. A prize, the first thing a person offered. In their despair it often was a prize too high and Lucifer, the poor fool, had to accept. He carried each and every prize until he could give it back, in one way or another. It helped to hold the world in balance. It helped, but it was never easy.

Right now, Lucifer was bargaining with Vesemir and maybe… who knew what would happen. Not him, that was for sure, and definitely not Lucifer. Death waited, watched Geralt, held his hand and listened to his screams. He listened and listened, saw the boys hair turn white, saw his muscle constrict and flex painfully. He saw him stop breathing, heard his heart give out… and saw him cough, taking a deep breath and keep on living. He released Geralt’s hand and stroked over his now white hair.

“It’s done,” Death whispered and for the second time this day, startled, when a melodic voice said, “It seems a bargain has been made.”

He turned and stared into the face of a being, so beautiful it was hard to put into words. Blonde waves surrounded a heart-shaped face, green eyes sparkled even in the dim room and the elegant figure smiled painfully soft. She passed Death, her white dress swishing without any wind, brushed his shoulder and a spark of something fluttered in his chest. With big, round eyes he watched her place a kiss onto Geralt’s forehead, whisper something into his skin.

“What, why?” Death stuttered, so taken aback he didn’t know what to say, or how to ask. But Destiny just smiled at him, beautiful as another day’s sunrise.

“Life decided that if he’s supposed to live, he’s supposed to truly be alive.”

And with those words Destiny left him to stare, mouth agape. Because what she meant was that Geralt was to change the Continent. Suddenly hope bloomed in his chest.


	2. the purge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gascaden dies and tells Death something very concerning.

It took another few years until Death saw Geralt again. He knew that the boys who had survived the trials needed to undergo even more training and learn to live with their new bodies, new senses, new everything. Death also knew that half of the boys who survived the trials - and by the gods that weren’t much - died on their first year on the path. He had helped endless witchers through the door. All of them had taken seeing him with a grace he found in no other species. He didn’t know what was on the other side of the door. He had never gone there and as long as this world existed he wouldn’t. It wasn’t his path. But he knew that not everyone went through the same door. Different species passed differently. But the door which led witchers to their next life was - in his humble opinion - the most beautiful, even if it was a simple one. He may be biased, though.

Death didn’t usually see the same creatures, species, people more than once. Most weren’t born to kill and if there was anything he knew in his every bone, then that you could only die once. The door could be passed exactly once and you didn’t return. Even if there was talk about reincarnation, something, a small thing, was always different. You only died once.

Sentient beings weren’t meant to kill, even though some did a considerable amount of times. But witchers, they killed. They weren’t born to kill, oh no, but made to. Tortured and formed into a life that constantly put Death in their life. Even if they weren’t aware of him exactly. But as he helped every being through the door, even monsters, he met them constantly. By now he knew witchers intimately, knew how different they were and how much the same. Alone, tired of a life that never began, ment to deal with something only he - Death - should deal with on a constant basis. He hated it and wished he could help, but he wasn’t meant for it. What he could do was watch and be thankful for the deed the witchers did. Because some creatures didn’t belong in this life. The conjunction of the spheres had messed up a lot.

Usually the first kill a witcher did was a monster. A drowner perhaps, or a kikimora. But, as with everything else, usually didn’t apply to Geralt. When Death saw him again, Geralt worried his lip, mute from the schock and eyes wide as he stared at a girl that kneed on the dirty ground, puking. In his hand he held his steel sword, dripping with blood. Not his.

“Monster,” the woman screamed the moment she could speak again. “Get away. Don’t come closer. Don’t…” she heaved and cried salty tears. Geralt turned away while the man on the floor took his last breath. Then the person who had just died stood next to Death, face pale, eyes darting from his face to his own body and back to him.

“Who are you?” he bellowed, voice harsh but fear visible in his eyes. Death heaved a sigh.

“Close your trousers,” he ordered and the man did, hastily. “I’m Death and you are, obviously, dead.”

“But, what…” the man stammered. He got even paler, if that was possible, and looked back at his body on the ground. The sight of himself, bloody and lifeless seemed to drive the point home. It normally did.

“You are a thief and a rapist and I have no love for those,” Death spoke and then sighed again. Just because he didn’t have any love for those creatures didn’t mean he didn’t have to guide them through the door. He flicked his hand and behind him a door appeared. Small, just big enough for the man to crawl through. At least it wasn’t made easy for him.

“Go. This life is no more for you.” The man didn’t move. Stood stock still. Death closed his eyes, and when he opened them again they were hard. “Go!” he spoke again and his voice was dark and cold. With a squeak the man finally obeyed and the door closed, the moment the man had finished struggling through. He hadn’t asked for a name. Thieves and rapists didn’t deserve to be remembered.

When he focused back on the world outside of his realm, the girl had stood up, still shaking and Geralt was gone. With a sigh, he pulled the hood back over his head and brushed the woman - a young thing, merely old enough to travel alone, with red rimmed eyes after all the crying but still fairly beautiful under all that - over the shoulder. She shuddered, pulling her cloak closer.

“You didn’t have to call him monster for saving you,” he whispered but even if he had shouted, she wouldn’t have heard. Then he felt a tug, again, and went. He was finished here.

* * *

Another few years passed in which Death saw Geralt constantly. He saw the man become quieter and turn inward. Saw him tight lipped and humming more than speaking the more time passed and the more kills he had to take. It was a normal process for witchers, but not one he liked. He also saw Eskel just as much as he saw Geralt, and Gweld and Gascaden, too. He watched them closely, as Kikimoras turned smaller in their death until they reminded of a spider, crawling up his hands happily laughing and then vanishing through a small door. Drowners crawled out of their bodies, onto land, began to walk, straight, straighter, remaining more human than monster the more they walked, until they seemed happy and proud to walk through their door. He saw monsters get to a place where they truly belonged and he saw the witchers in turn become more haggard and lonely. If only he could tell them what good they did.

Then one day, when the tug inside him pulled him along, as it always did, it wasn’t the monster who laid down, dying. He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. He would need his strength for this.

Before him Gascaden was struggling, one knee on the hard forest floor, while a group of bandits attacked him. He held his sword tight in his hand, blocking one incoming attack, but didn’t manage to guard his back. Another sword dug deep into his flesh and he screamed. He wasn’t wearing his armor and Death could only guess that the bandits had managed to get to him by surprise.

Gascaden fell and he had to watch the witcher bleed out, agony washing over him while the humans raided Gascaden’s bags, cursed the lack of coin - why didn’t people realize that witchers usually didn’t possess much? - and threw the potions against a tree. Death suppressed an angry shout, when at last they took the two swords - steel and silver - one wretched out of Gascaden’s hand and even the medaillon. A part that should find its way back to the school of the dead witcher. But a lot of times it didn’t. 

A witcher died slowly. Their bodies were modeled to endure a lot of pain, to withstand many injuries. They died slowly and aguishly, painfully. The bandits were gone before Death could welcome Gascaden into his realm. 

Wind swept through the leaves, orange, red and brown. A soothing, rustling sound. Wildlife could be heard in the underbrush as the sun sank slowly behind the horizon. It wasn’t completely dark, when Gascaden’s body gave up. When he stood, before Death, he wore his armor again, as well as his swords and his wolf medallion. A proud witcher in all his glory. Just like it was supposed to be.

He blinked, looked at his body and then at him. A small, almost soundless “Huh” escaped his mouth, before he shook himself slightly. In it his posture became less tense.

“So I’m dead?” he asked, but it sounded more like a fact. His golden eyes regarded his stature curiously.

“You are, my friend, and I am sorry for it,” Death replied, keeping his voice steady, while he didn’t want to. But years of training helped to compose yourself into a calm, relaxed state, to help make this easier. Gascaden chuckled.

“Guess it’s not your fault.” Then he added, like an afterthought. “Always thought Death to be more - well imposing.”

“I try not to be,” he replied, easily, and smiled. Brushed the hood of his cloak back to reveal his face. “At least not for witchers. You do a lot of good in this world. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Again, Gascaden just made a sound that reminded him of a mix of a snort and pure astonishment. “Huh, so Death’s our friend.” Death watched how the edges of his mouth turned upwards. Watched him grap his medallion and then his expression fell.

“What? What is it?” Death asked, suddenly anxious. Something inside of him tugged him, not unlike when he felt the need to go, because another death awaited him. But he hadn’t had to move, yet.

“Life is never fair. I just hope you don’t have more of my brothers come to you soon.” Death blinked. The tugging became harder. He flicked his wrist and opened the door. “That mage said some horrid things. Cursed me, too. Said we would all die soon, anyway. Only reasons those bandits got to me.”

He became cold. And for him that was an almost impossible feat because he was Death and always cold. No life was warming him. “You have to go, Gascaden. It will all be better once you cross the threshold.”

The door behind Gascaden became bigger, brighter. Sounds of laughter wafted through it. Scents of woods and mountain air. Gascaden took a deep breath and nodded. “Take care of my brothers,” he said and Death could only clench his hands to fists.

“I’ll try.” And then Gascaden turned around, made a few steps and was gone. The door closed with a soft tud, and the tug inside of him became so much stronger, out of a sudden. It pulled him north and suddenly all that surrounded him - him, Death, a being almost as old as Life itself - was fear.

* * *

Autumn turned to winter, the farther north he went. The tugging inside his chest didn’t stop. It pulled him slowly but constantly towards Kaer Morhen. He knew, he had wandered this path often enough. On his way he met many witchers on their way home. They looked exhausted and tired. But they still followed their duty and Death helped even more monsters cross the door. Griffins, lying on the ground, flapped their wings and soared, higher and higher, until they vanished through a cloud-looking door. Werewolfs shook off their ragged fur, turned back to the men they had once been and then slipped through the door on bare feet. He went on.

He was Death. His profession told him where to go. He hadn’t much power over his way. He walked towards Kaer Morhen, and because life and death were never far apart, he slipped back south here and then. People didn’t die because he was close, he was close because people died. He had never understood how he managed to follow a path and still be in two, or three, or even more places at the same time. Don’t ask him, he wouldn’t be able to answer.

Winter hit hard and the walk up the Blue Mountains was impossible. Well, impossible for anyone else other than him. He just walked where he was directed to. Snow billowed around up to his knees, snowflakes hit his covered face and his cloak dragged behind him. The night was starry and the moon reflected in the white around him. It was easy to see the high towers of Kaer Morhen. The wind blew and then, as it switched directions he heard the screams and the clang of swords. If he had a beating heart it would have stopped. His feet dragged him on, while he closed his eyes, not wanting to actually see.

He passed the threshold of Kaer Morhen with closed eyes and the scent of blood in his nose. He smelled the copper tang and felt flames bursting high and higher. How had he not seen the flames before?

Because they hadn’t been there. Because only magic could produce such flames in such a quick time and such a capacity. Around him Kaer Morhen fell and witchers died and he still refused to open his eyes. He was Death and he cried bitter tears as he was assaulted with pain and agony. Despair filled him, so loud it hurt. He let out a scream, ringing in his own ears as left and right he felt life ending.

He still didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t want to see. To accept the cruelty of men.

He cried. Tear after tear rolling down his face, dark skin stained, brown eyes red rimmed. Something exploded, screams echoed from the stone walls of the old keep and his knees gave out. He fell. Fell. Into the arms of another.

His eyes snapped open and shockingly blue eyes looked at him. Sad. So sad.

“I got you,” Lucifer whispered and cradled him into his chest. He whispered soothing words, stroke his white hair, held him close. But he never offered to make a bargain. Knew it was fruitless. He was Death, he had nothing to give.

It took hours until the noise went down. The night slowly gave way to dawn, revealing piles over piles of death witchers. Dead beings that had every right to live a peaceful life. They never would. Never had the chance. Magic whirled in the air, portals opened, closed. Cruel laughter the last thing he heard until it was silent.

The silence of death.

“They need you,” Lucifer whispered in his ear, stroking his hair and not letting go. He didn’t want to let go. Wished to be someone else, not for the first time in his long and miserable existence. It didn’t change who he was.

“I don’t -” His voice broke. But Lucifer still held him and rubbed his back. There was understanding in his dark, smooth voice.

“I know. But they deserve an easy crossing, deserve to walk through the door and to be remembered.”

A sob bubbled up his chest and then he pulled his emotions in, rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. Lucifer was right. At least in death, all those witchers deserved peace. He stood on shaky legs, but he stood. Opened his eyes… and sucked in a breath. His chest constricted and he was almost back on his knees.

Kaer Morhen was no more. Walls had crumbled down, flames flickered through windows and doors, tinting the sky black with ash. The snow of the courtyard was stained red with blood of hundreds of witchers. All dead. Wherever he looked he saw familiar, hollow faces, eyes open and empty. Steel red, armors torn, faces contorted in pain. Witchers returned home for the winter to rest and settle. To regain their strength. Whoever had done this had used that to extinguish the whole school of wolf. And with a clarity that was frightening he knew it would happen to all the other witcher schools as well. Witchers were no more.

But that was a thought for later. Was an emotion to process when he had done whatever he could to make this easier. He exhaled again, inhaled the crisp winter air filled with smoke. Of course it didn’t affect him. He took a step and looked into the faces of a hundred witchers, all watching him with expectant eyes. Next to him Lucifer had stepped into this realm with him.

“I’m Death,” he said with a voice that didn’t waver. Lucifer reached for his hand and he was glad for the support. “and I have to apologize to you. I promised one of your brothers a few weeks back I would watch over you. But I couldn’t. I’m just Death and unable to interfere with the living. Gascaden died with the faint knowledge that this would happen and I am so sorry it was true. You deserved a peaceful life, respect and happiness. Many, many people live because of you. Now, you won’t.”

His voice broke and someone stepped forward. Rennes. Put a hand on his shoulder and smiled.

“My friend, it’s not your fault. We did a lot of things wrong. Tortured our children and pushed our elders far and farther. Maybe this is our penance.” He sighed and Death looked up to him. He was slightly taller than he himself was.

“No it’s not. Whatever you did was to -” He was interrupted with a small chuckle.

“To survive? See what that got us. If I could, I would go back in time, stop all this madness and do a lot of things differently.” He turned and faced his brothers. The leader of the wolf school faced his pack and kneeled.

“Can you forgive me for my wrong-doings?” he asked, voice cracking. Death watched on as hardened witchers teared up, pulled their friend up and pulled him into an embrace. Kids - trainees - ran up to him to tug at his sleeve and smile up, and maybe, maybe this pack of wolves could heal their hearts behind the door. He flicked his wrist, the one that didn’t still hold Lucifer’s hand. What opened wasn’t a door, it was a path, wide and bright, lovely. Adorned with flowers swaying in a wind that wasn’t blowing around them, as if it was a new day of spring. Bees summed and butterflies fluttered in the air.

“I wish you farewell,” Death said under a single tear that made its way down his cheek. “Walk the Path for one last time and let it be an easy one.”

Hands brushed his shoulder, squeezed. Tiny fingers pulled him into an embrace before they let go and his hair was ruffled here and there. Left and right witchers and would-bes walked the path, until they vanished. The last one to go was Rennes who bowed to him before he went. Behind him the path vanished and the cold encompassed him, anew.

His eyes went wide when he recounted all the names in his head. Somewhere to his right the corpses shook as if something - someone underneath them struggled. He cursed, as did Lucifer and together they rushed to push the heavy bodies away. Despair wafted up from the spot like tangible fumes. This time it was Lucifer who took the lead, but he knew already who they would find.

Death knew every name and every face that passed through the door and the one who had been missing, when the wolf school had walked their last path, was Vesemir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried a lot while writing this. And cried again while editing it.  
> It's a lot, I know.
> 
> Comments give me life. Talk to me on tumblr - arzani-fuchsia <3


	3. friend of humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years pass, Destiny meddles ... what is new about it?

It hurt. It hurt with every body they had to move to free the struggling person underneath. Because he knew every name. Derik, a young witcher, barely three years on the path. Till, an old witcher, almost as old as Vesemir. Pep, one of the lads, who would have gone through the trials the next year. And Rennes. He was the last body they pushed away, to free Vesemir from his predicament. By the time the witcher was finally free, Vesemir had stilled. He lay on the ground, blood soaking him from head to toe and he was as still as a stone. Only a small, constant shiver showed he was still alive.

Death watched Lucifer touch Vesemir’s shoulder and a tremor went through the witcher’s body. One moment there was nothing, then Vesemir seemed to realize he wasn’t alone. His eyes focused and a moment later he sprung up and a punch pushed Lucifer back. Despair was still prominent like a fume of lingering perfume. But it was laced with anger and rage. A rage that seemed to get stronger when the old witcher realized who he was attacking.

With a snarl Vesemir punched Lucifer again, square in the face. And again and again and again until the other was on the ground. Death could see that Lucifer didn’t fight back. He could take as much. They were … well Death didn’t know what exactly they were, but he knew they couldn’t die like normal beings bound to the Continent could. It didn’t mean that they didn’t hurt.

“You lied to me,” Vesemir snarled under his breath and while Death still wondered what that meant, Lucifer caught Vesemir’s hand in his own. His blue eyes were sad.

“I never lied to you,” Lucifer murmured, almost too low for anyone to hear. But Vesemir was close and a witcher. The old man understood and another snarl ripped from his throat. Struggling to get his hand free, but realizing that Lucifer was much stronger than he was - another benefit of them being, well them - he used his voice.

“You said to tell them to stay away. You knew, but you never said,” Vesemir snarled and it was bitter to hear him so distressed. The witcher was usually calm and collected. But here he lost control over his temper. It was understood, but still not easy to watch.

“Vesemir, I didn’t know,” Lucifer answered and the emphasis behind the words was sincere and so honest, even he believed him - had to believe his oldest friend - even though he had no idea what the argument was about. Under him Vesemir stilled. His deep yellow eyes grew wide and helpless. “I would have told you if I had known, but I didn’t. I can’t predict the future.”

“You said to tell them,” Vesemir repeated but now his voice was meek and small. Something wet glimmered in the edges of his eyes. Lucifer sighed and let go of the hand he still held. Stood and offered his hand to help the other stand instead. It wasn’t taken.

Sighing Lucifer elaborated and slowly, it dawned Death what had transpired. “I have to heed the prizes I take, Vesemir. You swore loyalty to happiness. I knew the more people stayed away from the keep this winter, the happier you would be.”

The tears that had gathered in Vesemir’s eyes started to flow and he looked broken; it made something inside Death crumble. Such a proud wolf, now alone and wounded. He didn’t even try to stand up. Just lay there, on the cold, hard ground. Blood stuck to him, covered his arms and his face. Somewhere further down the courtyard flames slowly grew smaller. Stone didn’t burn well.

Vesemir’s head turned, and suddenly his cat eyes looked straight at him. There was something in them that Death knew all too well. He shivered.

“You’re Death,” Vesemir said - voice monotone. Void of emotion. Cold. “Take me with you. Take me to my pack.”

Another shiver wrecked his body and while he, Death, was unable to speak - not wanting to because suicide still was uncomprehensable to him, yet too familiar all the same - Lucifer answered. His tone was sharp. “No!”

Vesemir’s gaze snapped back to the man hovering above him.

“Stand up!” Lucifer bellowed, voice still sharp. Something in it, probably the order, made Vesemir react, because he finally pulled himself up. He seemed mostly uninjured, despite the blood clinging to him. “You swore loyalty to happiness, and while this is not it, there are people out there who need you. Whose happiness depends on you. Your happiness is with them. They need you, Vesemir and you will not succumb to this black hole inside of you. I know despair. I  _ am _ despair. I took it away once, I will do it again.”

Death could see how defiance filled Vesemir. It was merely a spark but it was enough to light a fire. Good. He needed it to survive.

“My pack is dead,” he snarled and…  _ good _ . There was emotion. Rage, anger, fury. No happy emotions but emotions all the same. It was what pulled the witcher farther and farther from the door. A small smile slipped on his lips, but he hid it, before he spoke.

“Not all of them.”

His words drew two sets of eyes on him and Lucifer, the bastard, wasn’t as modest as he was. He grinned smugly. Vesemir didn’t seem to notice.

“How do you know? They all died - oh,” Vesemir growled and then suddenly seemed to realize who exactly he spoke to. He staggered as he made a step forward, towards him. Desperate. “Who?”

Closing his eyes, Death recalled every face he had sent through the door earlier. Compared them to the wolf witchers that were so dear to him and filtered out those who had been missing. Those who still were alive. There weren't many, but they were a few.

“Aubry, Frank, Hennes,” he said, paused and then went on. “Lambert” Vesemir soundly sucked in a breath. The old man had always been fond of that prickly asshole of a witcher. “Pete, Vincent.” he paused again. Compared names and faces and finally ended with: “Eskel.” Something in Vesemir seemed to crumble. “Oh and Geralt.” Before he fell.

Lucifer caught Vesmir in his arms, as tears flowed, flowed like only rivers did and didn’t seem to stop. He saw Lucifer murmur something into Vesemir’s ear but a tug, a hard tug, made him realize he couldn’t stay.

“Lucifer,” he whimpered and his friend looked up. Blue eyes met his. “I can’t… I need to go.”

“Go my friend. I will find you. Always.” And then he made two steps and was gone. When he opened his eyes again, it felt like he had stepped into a dejavu. Around him witchers fell, flames licked at stone walls like they shouldn’t do and the only difference to Kaer Morhen from half a day ago was the symbol of the medaillons around the dying witchers’ necks.

* * *

A week later he had to go to meet a group of mages. He didn’t know what to feel when he stoically led them through the door. But when it closed behind the last one, he knew the mutagens were lost, forever. No more witchers would be made. A dying species. Forever gone, when the last that wandered the continent would cross the door. All on their time.

The mages had been betrayed by the same people who had promised them heaven and earth, to kill the witchers they had created. Death couldn’t find pity in him, not after the week he had had.

* * *

Life went on, as it always did. It stopped for no one, not even for Death, who wandered the Continent and opened doors and closed them, and opened them again, on repeat. Talk about the obliteration of the witchers had spread like a wildfire. It flamed high the first few years and then, slowly died down. With time - very little time - witchers became a myth, a mystery and a dark shadow. Had they been hated and misunderstood before, now it was even worse. Life for a witcher wasn’t easy. Death knew all too well.

Despite everything - and what those people who had ordered to extinguish all witchers had believed - the need for witchers was still present, and sometimes even pressing. Monsters weren’t gone and occurrences that couldn’t be explained and needed dealt with happened.

Like the black sun.

Many young girls died - on that day, weeks and months after, even years after the sun had become black and had darkened the day. One fateful day a tug pulled him towards a village called Blaviken.

The village felt gray and cold. It seemed devoid of people, but Death realised it wasn’t. Men and women and children hid from the blood-shed that had happened in the town’s square. When Death arrived several men were dead already, waiting for him. Some feet away he saw Geralt, fighting with a woman. Steel clang, clashing again and again. It was an intimate, dangerous dance. It was breathtaking and oh so sad. Because one of them would die. Death knew, because even after he sent the men through their respective door - a small, wooden one. For people who had done a lot of bad deeds in their life - he couldn’t leave.

Geralt’s eyes turned sad when the dagger cut through the woman’s neck and blood gushed over his hand. Death watched him lower the fragile body down to the ground, with tender care. Only when she hit the ground, she stepped out of her body to him, even though she had been dead before. It was mercy, to die swiftly.

His mouth opened, the words already on his tongue, when a person - a mage - stepped forward and demanded the woman’s body. Geralt refused and Death’s words died in his throat. He felt them crumble to ashes. The woman hadn’t recognized him yet, just stood and stared - as did he - how Geralt refused to give over her body.

Tears brimmed in his eyes when the first stone flew and rolled down his cheek when he watched the witcher clutch the brooch and fled. The sad golden eyes had turned numb.

Taking a deep breath, he banished the tears and steeled his expressions. He was Death. He had a job to do.

“Child,” he spoke and when no one answered he said it again, gently laying a hand on the woman’s shoulder. When she turned, her face was blank. Big brown eyes stared at him, but didn’t see him. Only her lip quivered, as if she wanted to cry but didn’t know how to.

“They exiled him,” she whispered, more to herself than him. “He saved them and they threw stones at him.” Then her gaze cleared. Hands clenched to fists. “I would have burned the whole fucking village to the ground and he helped them and now he’s getting stoned for it? He should have let me kill every single one of them.”

It was eerie how her words echoed from the houses, the town square empty now except the dead bodies. Death could see her look around, see that her own body was gone. The mage had taken it. Not heading Geralt’s words. Never heading his words.

“He didn’t deserve it,” she whispered, anger flaring in her voice. “I should have just left.”

“Would that have made you happy?” Death asked, not knowing the story behind her words, but he had gotten good at guessing. There was something between them - her and Geralt - and it was crystal clear in the way they had fought, in how Geralt had defended her death body, in how she now mourned him, not herself.

Her shoulders slumped, and she looked at the spot her body had laid. “No,” she admitted, defeated and then stared at her palms. Getting a step closer, he held out his hands.

“There is nothing fair about dying. I have seen so many die in revenge and none have been happier about it. Leave it behind, before you go, dear.” With a flick of his wrist he opened her door behind him. A small, square one appeared. The light was dim, flickering. Like a candle in the wind. He sighed. She had murdered, too. It wasn’t in his power to judge. He just opened the doors.

A hand took his and it made him shudder. It was a warmth he so rarely felt. Her eyes flicked warily from him to the door. “It looks painfully hard…”

“It always is,” he whispered. Leaving revenge behind wasn’t easy. He closed his eyes, just for a moment...

...and snapped them open when laughter rang in his ears. Someone stepped through the houses, a person so bright and beautiful it took his breath away.

“Destiny,” he muttered and turned to face her better. Her blonde hair seemed to flow in the wind, in a direction that wasn’t where the actual wind blew. As she walked closer, the gray of the town seemed to vanish and a blue sky was revealed. Her body was swaying, dancing even though she was merely walking. When she reached them she pressed a kiss on the woman’s cheek.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, my dear. But your sacrifice didn’t go in vain.” She snapped her fingers and the door before them transformed, turned bigger and brighter, until it was a deep amber color like the dead woman’s hair. The light that shone through felt warm, like daylight. Destiny had taken her darkness away.

“I will take your anger and hatred and give you this,” Destiny spoke with a melodic voice and formed her hands to a cup. A ball of light appeared. “Take it, princess.”

The woman did, reaching for the ball of light. The moment her fingers touched it her eyes went wide. She straightened, sighed and then smiled. Her whole demeanor had changed.

“You haven’t ruined his happiness,” Destiny finished and then looked at him, Death. “Take care my friend.” She brushed his arm when she passed him and then she was gone. It left him speechless and dizzy.

“Child, you need to go,” he murmured, looking at the transformed woman who was still the same, somehow. She nodded, smiled.

“Will you remember me?”

“How do you want to be remembered?” Death asked, because he knew it would be impossible for him not to remember, even if he tried. The woman laughed, and, to his surprise, curtsied.

“As Renfri de Friedfalk, princess of Creyden,” she said, and when she walked through the door, hummed. It was a song he had never heard before, but he could decipher the words ‘friend of humanity’. The melody stuck in his head, long after the door had closed and Renfri, princess of Creyden, was gone.

* * *

Years passed. It was a concept that he was very familiar with, the passing of time. It was in his nature to see people come to life, walk through it and then leave, through a door he opened and closed, but never crossed. Yes, he was Death and he was very familiar with the passing of years.

Years passed and he met Geralt and Eskel and Lambert and Aubrey and all the other witchers. He saw them kill monsters, manticores that turned small and smaller in their deaths until they seemed like cats, purring and chasing the light through their small, inviting door. Ghouls, simply melting into the ground, the door not very defined, as all the earth was theirs. So many monsters that became docile in their deaths. Never humans, though. Humans seemed vile, even after they died. At least those who had been vile in life as well.

The moniker Butcher of Blaviken had come up like a wave and washed through the Continent like a flood. It had been hard for witchers, always, but in these times it seemed even harder. They killed monsters and were chased out of towns and whenever Death saw them they seemed hollow and empty.

Then, one day, he heard a song. Suddenly he was transported back to the day he had met Renfri of Creyden, the lost princess, who had hummed a tune he had never heard before. Now, Death knew why. Because it hadn’t existed yet.

Destiny had meddled with Life, or was it the other way round? Life had meddled with Destiny? He couldn't tell. He only stood stock still, when he heard a tavern sing “Toss a coin to your witcher”, as he picked up a kitten that hadn’t managed to survive the winter. It took the cat to claw at his hand for him to get out of his shock and open her door. She purred, before she jumped down from his arms and into whatever awaited her after the threshold.

Shuddering he peeked through a window inside but he couldn’t see whoever sang the song. But he spotted white hair in a corner of the tavern, a silent and stoic figure sitting in front of an ale.


	4. Bards and Dragons

It took awhile to figure out who the song belonged to. But then, one day, after a griffin hunt, when Death sent the graceful beast into the sky, opening its door with the flick of a wrist - up in the clouds, always up in the clouds for griffins - he heard Geralt sigh. The witcher always hunted alone, but now he turned towards a rock formation and rolled his eyes.

“Jaskier, I told you to stay at the inn,” he said, voice deep and gravely but almost fond. A man snuck out from behind the rocks he had seeked shelter at and ran a hand through his brown, soft-looking hair. His blue eyes shone mischievously. On his back he carried a lute case. A bard, and a very colorful one at that, with his shining green outfit.

“I wouldn’t have to sneak up on you -” Jaskier said lecturous, his voice melodic. Definitely a bard. Geralt muttered under his breath “You don’t.” but it didn’t disturb the other. “- if you’d be a bit more forthcoming with the details, my dear witcher. But as it is, one has to face the dangers of the Continent to write a good ballad.”

“You can’t write shit if you’re dead,” Geralt grumbled. Jaskier’s answer was lost to him, because a tug pulled him away from the two. But this small conversation had revealed enough for him to smile, as he faced his next task.

* * *

He had just helped a small girl, maybe six years old - Nata š a - through her door, when a tug pulled him away from outside of Redania towards what he soon realised was - a pond? A River? He hadn’t much time to consider it, because gurgling breaths stole his concentration. In front of him Jaskier - the bard he had by now seen a few more times and liked a lot so far - clutched his throat and spat blood. It was a horrible image, seeing the light, joyful bard in pain. Next to him Geralt held him by the shoulders, his face betraying nothing of his emotions, but his eyes… oh his eyes, they did. They flickered with panic, like a wolf caged in.

“We’ll get you to a healer, come on Jaskier,” Geralt muttered, pulling the bard towards the trees. Flicking his gaze Death saw a horse standing a few feet aside. A chestnut-colored mare. Obviously Geralt’s steed. Her ears flicked as she heard her master’s voice.

With a sigh, Death closed his eyes and suppressed a shudder. He was here. He was  _ here _ and Geralt’s companion was choking blood. The companion who sang of witchers’ humanity, and told their stories - of the good in witchers and the burden they carried - and made Geralt smile and had managed to lift the numbness from his gaze. The colorful, joyful bard who seemed so full of life. He was here, his mind whirled and he hated it.

He tried to move, to get away - ignoring the situation had never helped, but he needed to try, because - because - it would shatter the witcher - like Renfri had and - he couldn’t focus, couldn’t think and when he took a step it was towards the horse. Towards Geralt and Jaskier and towards the inevitable. A tear rolled down his cheek, one he rubbed away.

“Come on, Jask, get up. Here,” Geralt murmured, putting his hands around the other man’s hips and gave him a push up on the horse, following swiftly after. They rode, and like a rope, his body was pulled with them. The wind rustled the leaves around him, tears fell unwanted and his legs moved. One, two, three steps. He moved - and was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Something in him eased, as he turned around. He was faced with a very beautiful, very familiar face.

“What…?” he got out through a clogged throat. Destiny smiled at him, from a perfectly even face, and leaned closer. The frill of her sleeve stroked over his cheek.

“You have no business here, my friend. Life isn’t done with Geralt of Rivia and his partner.” Her voice was warm and even, and so full of sincerity, it took a while to get the content. But when he did, Death fell towards her, face pressed into her neck while he sobbed. Tears of relief flooded him, being thankful that Life was, after all, still stronger than him. When his sobbing had eased, the tug was as gone as were Geralt and Jaskier. Destiny smiled at him and brushed a stray tear aside. Then she took a step back… and was gone.

* * *

Whenever Death saw Geralt and Jaskier after the incident, he realized that something had changed between them. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was, until he learned of Yennefer of Vengerberg and Geralt’s infatuation with her. Suddenly the sadness in Jaskier’s blue eyes made sense. Broken hearts were hard to mend. But the bard stayed with Geralt through it, singing praises of the White Wolf and his deeds. With the months and years that passed the moniker of the Butcher of Blaviken was replaced by it. It was a much better state for a witcher to be in. Even if the witcher himself didn’t realize it.

But not only Geralt profited from Jaskier’s songs. Whenever he saw the other witchers, they seemed - better, in a way. Not as hollowed out. He could spot filled bags and clinking coin purses. One day, when he was pulled to harpies that he helped through the door - the mated pair danced into the air until they were gone - he caught Eskel humming the melody of “Toss a coin” under his breath. It was a rather adorable sight, even if he knew that probably every witcher would be offended to be called adorable. It wasn’t that anyone would ever find out.

As always time passed rather fast. Following a tug, he found himself in a cave, on a mountain. Blinking, he adjusted to the different light conditions, when his pupils blew wide. Before him lay a dragon, stuttering her very last breath. She was beautiful, scales shimmering green in the dying light. Then she stood from her body, curling around an egg. Oh… he turned, when he heard a sound… and took another breath when he saw another dragon enter the cave. His scales were of pure gold. It took the other a moment to realize that his… mate? had drawn her last breath, before the gold dragon let out a scream so agonizing, it pulled a sob out of him, too.

“Don’t cry,” a voice inside his head whispered and he turned his head to see the green dragon look at him. “I died protecting my hatchling.”

“A very noble death, indeed,” he replied, and suppressed the tears that had threatened to spill. His gaze was fixed on the green dragon. A shudder rushed down his skin, when the dragon laughed wistly.

“No death is ever noble, shouldn’t you know that?”

With a small smile, he replied, “I may be Death, but I have a lot to learn, yet.”

“It seems so,” the green dragon replied and then gazed at the golden one, very alive and pacing the cave, eyes sparkling with grief. “He’s been good to me, but he’s afraid.”

“So he is.”

Another shudder took hold of his body at the voice and when Death turned around, he saw Destiny walk towards him. A rare curse escaped him. He wasn’t one to lament the wrong-goings of the Continent. It was pointless anyhow.

“Fuck. I haven't seen you for centuries and now I’m meeting you every few years. What’s going on?”

“This world is changing, my friend, and it’s changing rapidly,” Destiny said and watched the golden dragon pace. Then she turned to face their guest.

“My dear, your hatchling will be safe… but you have to go, now.”

With a look Destiny made herself know and even though he had so many questions, Death knew what was expected of him. He flicked his wrist and nearly fell back, when before him a door opened - made out of steel and iron, bigger than every castle gate, decorated finely with what seemed like carvings. They presented a story that was out of his comprehension and too fast gone, as the door opened wide. The last dragon he had helped over the threshold was decades ago and yet, they hadn’t had such a door.

“Go, my dear and know that your death is part of a fate that this world will desperately need and get.”

With a roar, the green dragon spread her wings. It took a moment for Death to comprehend, but he shouted through the noise. “What’s your name?”

“The-one-that-soars,” echoed in his head. Then she flapped her wings and darted through her door. It closed behind her with a soft tud. Shivers made it hard to concentrate but he got a grip on himself and half expected to turn around and find Destiny gone, as it usually was. But she wasn’t. She stood close to him, a small smile on her face.

“How do you know the egg will be safe?” Death asked, curious. He knew that Destiny and Life belonged to each other in a way, but he had never understood it completely. What he also knew was that while Destiny was good in meddling, she couldn’t influence a person’s decision and free mind. It just wasn’t in her.

“I have faith,” she said, then took a step and he knew she was in the realm of the Continent. The dragon took a breath and suddenly halted, sniffing, turning around and focusing on Destiny, who dared to grin smugly.

“I’m Destiny,” she introduced herself, as if it was the most normal thing in the world and not a novelty for her to reveal herself. They weren’t supposed to. He knew he couldn't. Only Lucifer constantly had to pass the fine line between here and there - and only despair allowed it for him, not his own free will. “And if you want to save the egg you have to find Geralt of Rivia and bring him here. But, when he is here, with her, tell her about the wish.”

The words sunk into him, and he wanted to understand. He desperately wanted to stay - but couldn’t. A tug pulled him away. But even when he did his next task, opened another door, and another door, he pondered Destiny’s words. A wish? What wish?

* * *

To his own surprise it didn’t take long for him to be back on the mountain. Another two weeks at best and Death faced a Hirika, its big eyes looking at him. He rustled in the pockets of his coat to find nuts. The Hirika took them gladly, purred and Death stroke his head, before he flicked his wrist to open a door. The creature went happily, still munching on the nuts in its hands.

With a sigh, Death looked around at the group of people and focused on Geralt and Jaskier. It seemed the golden Dragon had found them and convinced them to accompany him. It didn’t take long for him to feel the same aura from the old man to be the one of the golden dragon. Yet, it seemed, no other had made the connection. Well no other outside of his little group. The companions of him, two very beautiful, dangerous looking women, who obviously were from Zerrikania and had a skin color not unlike his own, seemed to have at least an inkling.

His eyes darted around, saw the bushes full with ripe berries, saw the sword in the hand of a man, dripping with blood and realized this death could have been avoided. The shocked stares of the people surrounding the body of the dead Hirika confirmed it. A feeling of disgust and pain clenched his heart, but he let it go. Had to let it go. Men were selfish and vile, and he wished he could change things… but with a tug he went, and knew he never could.

* * *

Not even a day later. Not even many hours later, he was back on the mountain, almost in the same spot. The man who had killed the Hirika was now as dead. When the man realized who greeted him, he stood straight and lifted his chin. It looked ridiculous.

“I have died for honor and glory.”

Death snorted, flicked his wrist and had to suppress a smirk when a very ordinary door opened. It wasn’t small, or hard to pass. The man hadn’t been evil in his life, hadn’t murdered, only killed in self defence or for protection - at least so he thought - or stolen or done anything to warrant a hard to pass door. But it seemed he also hadn’t been as grand as he had wished to be.

“No one dies for honor and glory. In death no such things exist. You either live or die,” Death answered and nodded with his head towards the open door. Wood. A wooden frame, a wooden door. No carvings, no brass hinges. Just plain and ordinary. Like the man before him, whose face fell and shoulders slumped.

“But… but I was a knight. I lived for -”

Death interrupted him. “For honor and glory? I hope when you pass, you realize there are other, much more important things to live for. Or the be dead for. Who knows what you will or won’t be, when you pass the threshold. But passing it you must,” he said, with a very even voice. It wasn’t mocking. There was nothing to mock, only things to be sorry for. For example to waste a life to honor and glory, and not see that living to love and enjoy, to laugh and to bond was much more important.

“Go, sir knight,” he said again and this time the man listened. He bowed his head, hung it in defeat and took a look back at his body. Not a nice sight. Not at all.

He went, the door closing softly behind him and Death stepped away under the moon, away from a body defiled. A cloud slowly shifted in front of the bright spot on the sky and blocked the light. But Death still found the group of people, sleeping now, but tomorrow it seemed they would go on. To find a dragon egg, a golden dragon that was admids them and to change the future of the Continent. At least, if he could believe Destiny’s words.

A tug pulled him away. But this time, Death knew he would be back shortly.

* * *

He was back in no time. Another day and some had passed, and he found himself in the middle of a battle. Behind him was a cave, before him the endless sight of valleys and more mountain tops. People surrounded him, charging at each other. He needed a moment to focus and figure who wanted to kill who and why.

On the one side were who were called The Reavers, on the other it seemed - Geralt and Yennefer and Teá and Veá and … Borch. Ah… he spotted the body of what had been The-one-that-soars and it didn’t need much to understand.

In the end, Destiny had been very right. The egg was safe and when he led men - many, many men, with names he didn’t ask for - through their door which wasn’t pretty, Borch spoke with Yennefer and Geralt. He only had half an ear for their conversation, but he listened. He felt it important to listen.

Just when the door closed behind him, Borch mentioned the wish, just as he was supposed to. Turning, Death saw emotions flash over faces that weren’t used to showing them. Betrayal and Sadness and Heartbreak. When Yennefer left, it felt like something was broken that couldn’t be repaired.

He wondered what exactly Destiny had in mind, when she had ordered Borch to reveal the contents of Geralt’s last wish. And by now he knew it must have involved a djinn and Death was old enough to know that djinns were volatile creatures, not meant to be caged and twitchy when ordered to grant wishes.

A brief flashback to Jaskier gagging with blood and Destiny ordering him away topped off the memory and he cursed. He himself, who had seen so much and lived for as long as he did, rarely cursed. But he realised that whatever was at play here was way bigger than him… or Lucifer or Destiny herself.

Life was at play, pulling and pushing around to… do whatever. He couldn’t guess. He didn’t want to. It wasn’t his job.

Only then he realized Jaskier hadn’t been there for the fight. But he was now, walking closer to Geralt, a forced smile on his lips. He saw the heartbreak before it occurred. But when it did, it cut deep.

“If Life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

Death knew… he knew Geralt had no idea about there being beings that were way bigger than him, or chaos, or simple matters of men. He knew nothing about him, Death, or about Lucifer, Destiny or even Life… but he had called out to Life and something told him that his wish wouldn’t be granted. That Life didn’t intend for Jaskier to simply vanish from Geralt’s life, who seemed to be bigger than he even wanted or realized. It would be a good thing, Death knew as much. No one was supposed to be alone, not even Witchers.

But for now. For now, as Jaskier walked away just as Yennefer had, Geralt was alone. He watched the sadness and realization of what he had done wash over the White Wolf. He watched him stare into the distance and see nothing at all. He watched him from being alone to become lonely and he stayed, as long as he could, but not being able to fill the loneliness at all.

* * *

Witchers didn’t have any emotions. It was a rumor that clung to the monster hunters like molasses. But Death knew it wasn’t true. He just had to look at Geralt to see how untrue it actually was.

Even though some of the witchers liked to tell themselves it wasn’t. They rather lied to themselves than admit their emotions - their happiness, their sadness, their hurt and love.

Walking through the Continent and facing the Path alone took a toll on Geralt. Death knew. He saw it in the grim lines of his mouth whenever he faced a monster to kill it, then looked behind himself just to realize no one was there. Sometimes he even saw Geralt call out. “Are you alright?,” he would say, just to face silence. The way his face fell, and then became grim and stoic, was heartbreaking. Death wondered if those moments happened in regard to Yennefer, too, but if it was so, he had yet to see it.

Months passed. Months of seeing Eskel, and Lambert and Geralt kill monsters. Months of hearing a song that was sung throughout to taverns. About a sweet kiss. About heartbreak and loss and want. A song that clearly belonged to the troubadour Jaskier, and yet, the man seemed vanished. As if Life had taken Geralt’s words and fulfilled them. But that couldn’t be, because despite everything Death knew. He hadn’t escored Jaskier through his door, and by the gods - should he even think as much? - he was glad about it.

He just wondered what Destiny’s plan was. Or Life’s for that matter. But maybe they didn’t even know themselves. After all, even Destiny, even Life, couldn’t take away a man’s free will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for kudos and reviews <3


	5. Death, Despair and Destiny and Life

He hated war. War was work overload and stretching him thin in unimaginable ways.

It usually crept in slowly, like fog coming up in the valleys, but soon it swept over the Continent and pulled everything into it. A village here, a family there and soon they became more and more until he had no time to breath, no time to rest, no time to remember faces and names. He always hated when he asked for names and they sounded just like the name before and before and before. In war a face was a face, and a name was a name, but nothing more. Even though it always was about things being more.

Death hated war but it was inevitable. As long as people - humans, non-humans - thirsted for power, they would wage wars. War would sweep the land and people would die, either by steel or flames or starvation or illness. It pulled him in a thousand directions while he opened a thousand doors.

Eist died on the battlefield, Queen Calanthe’s scream echoing over her dead men, while Death first led the Cintran soldiers through a door - all of them together, because in war and on the battlefield death made men equal. It was a big door. Not a nice one. But big and wide open - for the Cintran people who had died trying to protect their home.

Another moment later, as Queen Calanthe ordered her remaining soldiers to retreat, he opened another door, just right next to where the first had just closed, for the fewer Nilgaardian equivalents. The door was the same, just a tad smaller for fewer men.

In war people were all the same. Kings, peasants, men, women, Cintran, Nilfgaardian. They died, and they walked through his doors. That was the path of death. Always the same. Always and forever, as long as he existed.

* * *

People believed war took people swift and fast, but that wasn’t the case. Of course there were some people who died by steel, on the battlefield, or by a crossbow and their life ended like a candle blown out. But on most people death crept on slowly. He could watch them die. It was when Lucifer had the chance to change things. But war also muddled with despair and often - as despair rose around them - it took a lot more to call Lucifer forth.

In the Cintran castle he had been tugged forward by poison, one after one noble who rather took a swift painless death than being tortured by Nilfgaardian soldiers. He understood, somehow. Yet, he despised suicide. It was playing with him in a way he didn’t like. People cut off their time too early, by forces that shouldn’t be. The doors always seemed crooked. But in times of war… he understood.

He went and went and opened doors and then he found himself facing Queen Calanthe, laying on her divan dying. Next to her a mage - no a druid -, a man and a child. He didn’t want to pay them much attention, as his other parts were still occupied by opening doors all around the castle - but the grip of coldness, of death, had already caught Calanthe and he knew he was needed here. Had to do a job.

He listened to her speech with only one ear when he took in her saying “witcher”. It was the moment Calanthe had his full attention, his mind whirling on what a Cintran Queen wanted with a witcher. Whoever that witcher was.

The question was answered just a moment later, when he was tugged into another place just outside the castle, where a white-haired witcher fought his way through several soldiers. His eyes just blew a little wider, as he opened another door, and another.

Why?

“Laszlo, bring her cloak,” the queen said and he tried as hard as he could to focus on the conversation. As the druid and the man left the room - another stepped forward with the cloak - the girl - the cub? The princess of Cintra, it only could be - screamed. And with her scream released such a raw power of Chaos that even he took a step back, astonished.

Who, by the gods and all living things, was this girl? His focus slipped. Concentration drawn thin by the raging battle around him, it took him a lot to stay present. Calanthe was resilient and while she was dying she fought him with every breath. He had other places to be, but he wanted to listen!

“I love you,” the girl whispered and Calanthe answered.

“Find Geralt of Rivia, he is your destiny.”

And there it was, his answer. His answer to a many questions that had built up in his mind since Destiny had confronted him with one truth. That the world would change and Geralt of Rivia was part of it.

So Life had bonded them, the lone White Wolf and the Lion Cub of Cintra - a pair so different it didn’t make sense. But it would. Somehow it would.

He was pulled away. Calanthe was too strong for him to stay. All around him people died and died and while so much happened he couldn’t take it all in. He slipped and lost the Queen and the Lion Cub, until he saw Calanthe again, flying from a window. She was dead the moment she hit the hard cold ground.

He blinked at her, when she faced him. Head held high, lips drawn in a tight line, eyes fierce. She didn’t even look at her broken body. She just looked at him.

“So you are Death,” she said and he sighed.

“I am, your majesty. I am.” With a wave of his hand her door opened. Not regal by any means. She had killed a lot, had many elves in particular on her conscience. But she had been a good ruler and that accounted for something.

“They will find each other. I am sure of it,” Death spoke. He didn’t give the queen time to answer. He ushered her through the door. But he didn’t miss the hope that danced in her eyes. A tiny, tiny flame. But one that could ignite a raging fire.

The door closed and he was yet again with another soul that needed to be guided through. War were hard times. Busy times. Times he didn’t like.

But maybe, maybe in the future the war could be stopped.

* * *

It was some time later - mind you, not much in regards to the many decades he had lived on this Continent - but some time later for a human being, when he saw Geralt again. He had guided a bunch of travelers through their respective doors and recognised the place, when the White Wolf fell. He just arrived in time to see Geralt fall to the cold ground.

Closing his eyes he sighed - hoping, praying, even though there wasn’t one single god he could pray to - he wasn’t here for the witcher. When he opened his eyes, he saw the soul of the ghouls. A harsh breath escaped him, before he guided the creatures back into the earth, where they belonged.

Then he went. Took a step… and couldn’t move.

“No,” he hissed. “He’s touched by Destiny, he’s not allowed to go.” There were people Geralt had yet to meet. What was Life playing at?

Before him Geralt lay, limbs trembling slightly, his body wracked by the poison flowing through him. He wished he could help, but all he could do was wait. His body felt cold. But his body was always cold.

Time seemed to flow slowly. Witchers never died quickly. Witchers had been made to endure and enduring they did, even when it was hopeless. Pushing his hood back, Death revealed his face and kneeled down to take Geralt’s hand. It didn’t help, he couldn’t really. But the White Wolf had done many good deeds in his life, many he wasn’t even aware of and if he could stand by, he would.

He knelt. He took Geralt’s hand… and the witcher’s eyes fluttered. A groan of agony passed by the witcher’s lips. He whimpered. And then a name registered in Death’s ear.

“Jaskier.”

For a short moment Death looked into the Wolf’s golden eyes, saw the despair in them and the agony and the pain. Then they fell shut and another whimper sounded in the darkness of the night. Somehow, someway it wasn’t surprising to feel a hand on his shoulder not a moment later.

“Lucifer,” Death whispered and there was plain hope in his voice.

Silence wrapped around them, like a cloak. The darkness pulled its veil over them, like it so often did. Even though neither death nor despair cared for the time of day.

“The second witcher to ever despair enough for me to be called, and here it’s the single one I saved because of it,” Lucifer mused. “What a circle.”

The last few words were drowned by another of Geralt’s groans. Again his eyelids fluttered and this time they opened. When he looked up, he seemed to recognize them. His pupils became big, probably to allow all of the light - as few as there was - in.

“I’m dying,” he got out and it sounded painful. But not of hurt, but of sadness. His head which he had lifted just barely, plopped back down on the ground. A tear slipped through his closed eyes. “I’m dying.” It sounded slurred. But not enough that they couldn’t understand him.

Lucifer took a step towards them and then kneeled down at Death’s side. He had shifted both their planes into Geralt’s one and suddenly Death could feel Geralt’s hand in his. He knew Geralt could feel his own, cold hand. Lucifer’s brows were furrowed.

“You are,” Lucifer spoke with his smooth voice. It sounded soothing. “But you should have been dead a long time ago, too, and yet you didn’t die back then. I can make it so you don’t die, now.”

“Don’t deserve it.”

Such few words, but they struck hard. They took his breath and his ability to speak. He knew about the self consciousness of witchers. But not like that. Never like that. Lucifer however... Lucifer growled.

“Stop spouting nonsense, witcher. I’m here because you want something of life, and you despair because death will take it from you.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Geralt’s eyes were still closed, but his hands thightend in Death’s grip. Lucifer was right. Oh, how right he was. Today, he didn’t want to open a door and damn, he thought he shouldn’t either.

“It matters, White Wolf,” Lucifer said and Geralt winced. Not out of pain, he hadn’t even moved. But because the name triggered something. Death had an inkling. A melody plopped into his head, unbidden. He started to hum it and Geralt’s eyes opened, staring at him, seeing through him until he realized he wasn’t, well … “Jaskier.”

“You wronged him,” Lucifer barged on. Unrepentant. Almost cruel. But it seemed to work. “You should apologize, you know.” Geralt flinched. “You certainly want to, or else I wouldn’t be here.”

“ ‘m dying.”

As if that was his excuse why he couldn’t or shouldn’t apologize. Lucifer snorted.

“I can make that stop. You just need to pay a prize, and you’re up and about, and can find your bard. Apologize. Be on your merry way.”

“Don’t have anything. ‘m a witcher. Let me d-”

“No,” Death interrupted. He didn’t even know what exactly he protested. Probably everything about this situation.

“Death’s right. There’s a lot you can offer.” And there was a smile, a genuine smile from his longest and closest, that was so soft it warmed his unbeating heart. Lucifer knew what he was doing, had been doing it from the moment he arrived here. “But how about, I decide on the price?”

Gold eyes looked at crystal blue. “What would you want from me? Who are you even?” Geralt asked. And his voice sounded stronger already, because Lucifer’s magic had already started to form. He tested his bounds and realized he could go now, if he wanted. But Death didn’t want to, just yet.

“I’m the devil, shouldn’t you know that, witcher?” Lucifer smirked and made Geralt snort. He tried to push himself up and groaned. Still too weak for that.

“Devils don’t exist.”

Lucifer laughed. “Vesemir said the same back then. I guess I’m proving you wrong. Now witcher, do you want to hear your price?”

Death watched Geralt form the word “Vesemir” with his lips, without saying it and then groaned. “What’s my get?”

“How about not dying?” Lucifer replied, and some distinct emotion passed over the witcher’s face before he scowled. “Oh, not good enough? Okay, how about… being alive to find your Child Surprise?”

Surprise followed and Death sighed. Destiny… she had given Lucifer this task. He was sure about it. But honestly, he didn’t want to know too much. It didn’t matter as long as Geralt continued to be alive. To actually start to live.

“Fine,” he grunted, something returning to his eyes. Hope maybe? Purpose. Maybe both. Probably both. “What’s the price I have to pay?”

Lucifer brushed a loose strand out of Geralt’s forehead and the touch was soft. So soft. Again, Geralt had closed his eyes, but this time it wasn’t out of desperation. It was contentment. Some blood smeared on Geralt’s cheek, but that was to sign the pact. Even if Geralt didn’t know, or even registered it.

“The price you have to pay is… to find Jaskier, and apologize to him. By using your words.”

On the ground, Geralt groaned. “Not sure I’m able to.”

Death chuckled, as did Lucifer. “Oh, you will be. We promise.” They both looked at each other, nodded, and then stood when they heard something crack. A man walked towards them and they realized they needed to go.

“Heal, Geralt of Rivia. You’re still needed on this earth.”

This time, when the witcher slipped into unconsciousness, Death wasn’t afraid anymore.

* * *

Time was a fickle thing for a being so long on this continent that he had seen centuries pass. He didn’t really count in days anymore, rather than in events. Moments worth remembering. Somehow he felt that this was such a moment, when a smiling face, attached to an unreal beautiful body appeared in front of him. A groan slipped from his lips.

“Why is it that I don’t trust you anymore? Whenever you show up trouble follows,” Death said accusingly, but Destiny only laughed. A laugh like a bell, so light and happy.

When she took his hand, without explanation, it was in a rare moment of not feeling any tug to go lead a soul through their door. Which rarely ever happened. Actually it didn’t happen at all. Not in these times of war. Not outside of war, either. Never.

Life played with him.

The next moment he stood in a meadow, surrounded by trees showing their autumn leaves. Winter would come soon. But not yet.

Under one of those trees, a man sat, with a lute propped in his lab, idly plucking at the strings. The melody sounded familiar but new. Like a song you once loved but had forgotten over time.

Hooves clicked on the street nearby. A happy shout from a young woman. A grunt, then a sigh and - he looked away from Jaskier to Geralt whose stoic demeanor was cracked by surprise and something else Death couldn’t decipher. Determination maybe. Remorse. Hopefulness? He could only guess. The girl tugged at his clock, smiling.

“Go. Go, talk to him. I knew we had to take this road for a reason. Go, Geralt,” she insisted and some silver hair had slipped from her hood. His eyes widened. Oh, so he had found his Child Surprise.

Death looked over his shoulder but Destiny was already gone. There still was no tug. Life played with him, but he didn’t care. For once he found that whatever destiny might bring it was a good thing. The bigger picture would be wondrous and beautiful, he suddenly knew.

He took a step closer to the scene, when someone gasped next to him. He turned around startled, when he saw... “Lucifer”. The man - as far as anyone of them was a man, truly - cracked a lopsided grin. “So she had brought you here as well?”

“Seems so,” Death replied and then embraced his oldest friend briefly before they both turned to walk closer to Jaskier, who by now had sat his lute aside. His blue eyes looked up to Geralt who had reached the troubadour before them. Just as they made it to hearing distance Geralt fell down onto his knees.

“sorry Jaskier. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have said those words on the mountain, I shouldn’t have treated you with scorn when all you ever were was a fantastic travel companion and a very good friend. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but if you’re willing to give me a second chance, I would like to show you I can do better… and there is a child that would very much appreciate having someone not as grumpy as me to talk to.”

He smirked to bring some lightness into his speech. Jaskier just stared at him, blinking a few times before he mustered an answer.

“Who are you?”

It seemed Geralt was stunned silent by that, because he didn’t reply immediately. Then he found himself and his voice again, because he stuttered. “Geralt of Rivia. Witcher. White Wolf… you know me, Jask. Please.” His voice broke on the last word. Something Death had only ever heard the White Wolf do once before… when he was nearly dying. Jaskier seemed to evoke those feelings in the witcher.

Holding up his hand, Jaskier reached with his other for his boot and then slipped a dagger free. At the sight Geralt recoiled a little, but didn’t move away. However Jaskier seemed to not want to attack, either, just held it out. The blade held flatly, shimmering in the sun.

“Touch that,” he demanded. Geralt eyed the blade, then Jaskier’s face.

“I’m not a doppler,” the Wolf answered but something akin to a smile slipped on his face. Was he… proud? His fingers touched the blade. Nothing happened.

“The fuck?” Jaskier looked at his dagger, then back at Geralt, towards his dagger and then to the horse and Cirilla. She waved at him, smiling. By now her hood had been blown back on her shoulders by the wind. She looked happy to stand on this dirty road and watch the scene unfold.

“Is that… who I think it is?”

Geralt nodded. His gaze didn’t waver from Jaskier. He knew who he meant.

“She’s very brave, and smart, and eager to learn. But there are certain things I can’t give her.”

Jaskier looked at him, confused. “Like…?”

“Like the finer things in life.”

A laugh seemed to slip and he clasped a hand in front of his mouth. His blue eyes crinkled with mirth. As if it was a joke only they understood. Maybe it was. “I’m still mad at you, just so you know.”

“I understand,” Geralt injected, but Jaskier kept barging on. The mirth still tugging at the edges of his mouth.

“And you will grovel and compliment my singing.”

“I always liked your singing.” Again Jaskier didn’t seem to hear, or pretended not to hear because he smiled nonetheless, pleased. It looked beautiful. This moment was beautiful.

“And I am getting a horse.”

“Sensible.” By now even the stoic witcher smiled. Really smiled.

“And you’re going to introduce me as your very best friend in the whole wide world to your child surprise…” At this, Geralt caught Jaskier’s moving hands and looked at the bard with deep fondness. Something rose inside Death’s chest, like warmth. He turned towards Lucifer and nudged him. They still heard Geralt speak though. His voice was laced with… with love.

“Jaskier… If you want, I’ll even introduce you as something more than my very best friend…”

Lucifer and Death looked at each other, smiling, and took a step back towards the road. Out of their eyes they saw the witcher and his bard lean into each other, but they didn’t linger and kept on walking, away from this meadow, on this particular day that was a part to change the Continent. It wasn’t their time to interfere. Not today. Hopefully not for many days to come.

“Time to go, old friend,” Lucifer said and Death nodded. “We’ll probably see them again.”

Death laughed. “If Life so wills, we do.” He paused and looked, just looked at the handsome features and the blue eyes, and was suddenly glad to have someone to be by his side. Because if death was forever, despair was, too, and so was life and destiny. He had Lucifer and Death was glad. “Take care, old friend.”

“Take care,” he heard before the tugs came back and he followed them, to do his job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for going on this ride with me and I hoped you like it. I'm also sorry it took so long to finish, in the end the story didn't want to go as I wanted, but I managed to put it in its place.
> 
> I deeply appreciate comments and kudos and reviews and every kind word <3
> 
> I'm also on tumblr if you want to say hi.

**Author's Note:**

> I borrowed Death, Lucifer and in extension Destiny from a (german) story/fanfiction I have written once for the One Piece fandom. They are completely my own creation and I love them. This got longer than I wanted it to, I'm almost finished and couldn't wait to post the first chapter until I finished it, so well, here it is.
> 
> I will try to post a chapter each week and until then I probably am finished with the story as I reach the last chapter(s).
> 
> If I have the muse, I will write a part for  
> *Lucifer and Vesemir  
> *Destiny and probably Eskel and/or Ciri and some Geralt  
> *Life and Jaskier  
> and make this into a series. But no promises.


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